


Nuisance

by OwlOfMyLove



Series: Isla!Verse [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Death in Childbirth, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Parent-Child Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 05:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2257743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlOfMyLove/pseuds/OwlOfMyLove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Gold had never been very fond of children despite having a daughter of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nuisance

She was a nuisance.

Calling her such was a drastic understatement but whenever Mr. Gold looked at her there wasn't any other word he could think of that could singularly describe the tiny child that shared occupance of his home. Nuisance would have to do for now.

"Good morning, Papa!" She sing-songs, as she does every morning, from his dining room table that's cluttered with a bowl of cereal, colouring books, and crayons. Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard and he wishes she would take a lesson from the out-dated lesson that pretty girls are to be seen, not heard. 

He chose to his ignore his daughter this morning, opting to eat his breakfast quietly only with the irritating noises of his daughters humming as she scooped up cereal messily into her mouth in between the colouring pages. At least when she was chewing her cereal and colouring there would be a chance that no noises would escape from her. 

"Mr. Dove and I are going to be princess-ess..." she wrinkled her nose as she struggled with the word. "Princess-ess...princess-ss-ess...and have a tea party with cupcakes!"

Of course they would. Isla Gold wanted a tea party every damn day of the week. 

The child's caretaker, if that was even the proper word, sat at the opposite end of the table wearing the same expression that appeared to be tattooed over him. He was stoic in the face, stiff in the shoulders, and carried out whatever tasks Gold needed done - which almost always included babysitting Isla and repossessing items the residents of Storybrooke defaulted on. Dove was one of the few, if not the only, men in town that Gold knew he could trust and it was befitting to have him watch over the child even though Dove had no prior experience with children. 

Isla was accustomed to the two men giving her the silent treatment and in all her four years of life and had been led to believe it was normal. She continued to colour, scoop up her breakfast, and jabber about on some silly game she wanted to play later on that afternoon. 

"Please smile, Papa. The sun is shining and you should to!" Isla advises as she becomes distracted with her colouring, her dark brown eyes following her father as he cleans up his breakfast. 

Again, he is silent to her. She talks too much and ever since she learned to speak she hasn't shut up. 

Their morning routine continues as Gold and Dove share a few words on how the day will be played out so Dove is given an timeline on when he will be relieved for the day. It's rent day and that meant extra hours for a stiff Dove which he knows comes with a handsome pay should collecting all the money take longer than usual.  

"I love you Papa!" She calls out and it's the last thing he has to hear from her until the next morning. Thank God. 

Isla Gold was an accident. An annoying, unfortunate accident.

* * *

Lacey French the gorgeous, yet provocative, daughter of Moe French who owned a cluttered little flower shop that Gold deplored whenever he thought of it. 

The scantily dressed young woman herself wasn't exactly an eye sore unalike the shop she shared a relation to. She was beautiful with long legs, untidy hair that was wrapped up in a sultry bun atop her head, and confidence that matched his own. One of the very few women of Storybrooke that could catch his eye if the mood was right. She was nothing spectacular in the personality department. Lacey was a lover of alcohol and the little money that their flower shop raked in each month was dropped into long nights at the bar playing pool and sleeping with different patrons. 

Somehow, Gold found himself oddly attracted to the woman. 

He favoured shifting his eyes her way the only and only night he ever entered the The Rabbit Hole and after nearly a six months of subtle eye contact did she saunter over to him with those long legs, high-heels, and parted glossed lips. 

Lacey was bold and deliciously so.

She also was not one who enjoyed having her time wasted and was upfront about jumping between the sheets of whomever lived closer. 

From that first night he spent between her slender legs, they began a casual relationship that primarily focused on sex. Little time was spent with each other that didn't involve someone doing a sexual act or drinking. It was pleasant and Lacey was more sexually adventurous than any other woman he could remember sharing a bed with. They didn't bother to hide the fact that they were sleeping together. Lacey took well enough pride to walk out in the same clothes she came in the night before with the stupidest smirk across her day-old makeup covered face. 

Being careful on both partners end was hardly enough and she fell pregnant a year after their casual hookups began. 

Gold would be lying if he didn't admit that there was a fire of excitement in the pit of his stomach when Lacey burst into his shop and instead of demanding a quick fuck in the back of the shop, came in with a nervous face to tell him she was pregnant. He would be lying if he didn't admit that since he first saw her boldly standing in the bar he found attraction for the woman. He would be lying if he didn't admit that over the year of sleeping with her, he hadn't began to fall for her. 

Having a child was shocking, but the idea of living with Lacey and raising one burned away the jitters he could feel creep up on him from time to time. 

Lacey, on the other hand, complained from the moment she knew Gold would support her about how much she hated being pregnant. Swollen body parts, cravings, the desperate desire she had to drink, the pains she felt in her back and pelvic floor. She bitched for hours to Gold nearly every night once she took residence in his home two weeks after the positive sign showed up on the white stick. By the eighteenth week, Gold had developed his own personal annoyance for the child living in Lacey's womb. 

Only for one day was she ever excited to be pregnant; the day Dr. Whale read from the sonogram that they were to have a daughter. She spent the day picking out themes for the nursery and outfit to dress the child in. Her complaints only resumed when a midnight craving for Granny's lasagna put her back in a sour mood.

The residents of Storybrooke shook their heads and pitied the child. They whispered often enough that Gold would kick her out in no time, possibly even deny that the child was even his, and put Moe French's flower shop out of business by an impeccable rent increase that the French family would be unable to afford. Lacey's mothering duties were called into question immediately. Every ounce of doubt that Lacey would even love the child was the constant source of conversation, wondering if Lacey would leave the child alone so she could resume drinking and fucking any that took interest. Even Lacey's father himself took the news unkindly and refused to speak to his daughter from the moment she packed her belongings to move into a nicer home that wasn't trash.  

Isla was born on a dreary Wednesday that poured icy buckets of rain, much to Lacey's annoyance. 

She swore loudly to anyone who walked into the room. Dr. Whale and Gold themselves taking the brunt of anger as nothing the men did was right and Gold could only take sharp inhales to hope the child would be worth all the annoyance she had caused before her first cry.

With no prior medical complications throughout the pregnancy, Lacey died seconds after Isla took her first breath. 

Amniotic fluid embolism.

That was the diagnosis Dr. Whale gave him hours after Lacey passed.

Gold was stiff and silent in the recovery room where Isla was to remain until they were discharged. The tiny newborn slept peacefully, only to wake when hungry or needing to be changed, a 'blessing' the nurses called her. The child was oblivious to the monstrosity she had done in her short life. 

Lacey was gone and all he had left was this tiny pink child that took away a life in exchange for its own.  

* * *

Looking out of his rear-view mirror he sees Isla's pink booster seat, speckled with flowers of vibrant colours that clash terribly with the sleek black leather of his Cadillac. A long sigh comes from Gold and he regrets every day being burdened with her.

As much of a burden the child was, Gold was more than kind to her and he knew other children in the world did not have that privilege.

She want for nothing, given the most lavish clothing, books, and toys that came out and caught her attention. She thanked him (irritatingly so) every time and never begged for new items, always knowing that there was one day out of the month where he regretfully joined her on a small shopping trip to acquire the new items. He fed her proper meals and she was never denied when thirst or hunger rose in her tiny belly.

He didn't take favour to physical punishment, knowing well enough that hands or other materials to inflict pain upon a child would result in an ever redundant cycle. He struck her only once in his life shortly after her fourth birthday. The little nuisance had gotten into something she shouldn't and without hesitation he slapped her wrist with the broad of his hand. She was frightened, trembling instantly and ran away from him with screeching wails. It was effective in getting her away for several hours but the sobbing that followed during those hours were far from worth it. 

Gold did yell at her, and often too. On the weekends when Dove was given time off to be away from the nuisance, only to be called should an emergency arise, and that was when she got under Golds skin the most. She was always up early, demanding to have tea parties, watch movies, go to the park, and all silly childhood things. She would become over excited and cause a mess of things, breaking more items than he could count that led to a strong worded scolding that shut her up for a few hours that thankfully did not result in her sobbing while she hid away. Every weekend he contemplated paying Dove more just to watch her these mornings even if Gold himself was to be in that same room. He hated the tea parties and her persistent desire to dress him up. 

It's safe enough to say that the day he collects the rent is his most favourite of them all.

He can pay no mind to the vicious glares the residents give him or the threats they mutter under their breath as they hand over their money. In fact, he loves it. Their resentment is almost too delicious to pass and at times can be amusing. There is the occasional resident that wants to fight with the rent, begging for another day or week before they can pay and he adores teasing them like a cat slapping their paws over a bug over and over again while the vile insect tries to get away, only to fail in the end. Rent day was always the most entertaining and it granted him the least amount of time he would be trapped in that large pink house with Isla. 

The last stop before having to return home is the establishment owned by the widow Lucas and her free-spirited granddaughter, Ruby. It's dingy looking, always is, when he steps in and pays no mind to the nasty glare Ruby gives him with her arms crossed securely over her chest. A typical expression from Ruby, nothing to add to his rent day excitement.

A visitor is in the way of him and Ms. Lucas. A woman with long blonde hair and brilliant red leather jacket that is preparing to spend the night in Storybrooke and he can't help but wonder why she's here. There's nothing to draw attention to Storybrooke unless there was an interest in small town gossip shared by boring personalities. 

 _Emma_.

"Emma," he compliments, making his prescience known to the Saviour. "What a lovely name."

Three hundred years of memories return to him in an instant; flooding into his mind to swirl around with the memories of his cursed life. It hits him hard and yet, miraculously, he is able to keep his composure and compliment the young woman on her name. 

He remembers how Isla came to be. How she  _really_ came to be. 

* * *

Belle had returned. By the grace of all the gods there would ever be in this realm and others, Belle had returned. She told him a lavishly detailed story of her adventure; meeting warriors, rescuing a man that was once thought to be a monster, discovering her strength. She spoke with vibrance and before he could question, she gave her reason for returning and it was ever so appropriately worded; _another beast to face_. 

Rumplestiltskin made love to her that night, careful to avoid kissing her lips, and made love to her every night she dared allow him into her chamber. The warmth between her legs had offered him a comfort he had not felt in years, perhaps even ever, and with each night she allowed him in did he do all he could to spoil her body. She favoured his tongue between her dark curls and he knew doing that would leave the woman he loved a trembling mess and no matter how many nights in a row he asked to join her, the core was always treasured. The intimacy in their relationship grew out of a desire to please only her. His own needs could come later if she so allowed (which more often than not, she did which surprised him) but the focus was always her and Rumpletsiltskin made well enough to make sure his darling Belle knew that. 

It isn't much time after she returns, a mere four months, when she tells him that she is with child. Her blue eyes were bright, in love with the new life growing in her womb no matter what Rumplestiltskins reaction may be. She takes no time at all to pick out the room she wants for the child and begins to think of names and fixtures for the nursery. From the moment she knew, she was in love. He didn't want to bind her now that she was with child and while she has wild dreams of re-decorating the Dark Castle, he gives her the opportunity to leave. Belle politely declined each time and told him she would not be going on anywhere. She loved him and their child. 

Still, his offer stood. 

With the only Midwife in the land who accepted the task of birthing the Dark One's child, Rumplestiltskin broke away from tradition and was by Belles side as she birthed the new life they created; a healthy child that mirrored her mothers image until her beady brown eyes opened. Baelfire's eyes. His own eyes. 

The child was beautiful. Fat and pink the same as his son was. Healthy lungs, a thriving appetite, and a captivating coo. He knew then and there as he held his second child in his arms that he would not make the same mistake and Isla would be given all the love she ever desired. 

Belle stayed at the Dark Castle much to his relief and surprise. When her body healed from birth he waited to see if she would come to his chamber to resume what they shared up until the evening before her labour. He was anxious, fretting like a young child in love, hoping she would knock on his door and ask to sleep with him. She did, much to his joy, and he felt hopeful to think that one day they would be a proper family once Baelfire had been returned. 

Their child grew strong over the next two years. Talented, smart, beautiful, and unafraid of her father. Her locks begin to curl out more and it's obvious she has more of her mothers appearance and personality than his own. Unlike him, the children he fathers are strong and far from being a coward. He adores Isla as much as he did Belle and was like clay in their hands; molded to whatever they humbly desired. 

Rumplestiltksin leaves for only a days journey. A deal to strike for a silly merchant and he promises his daughter who begs him not to go that he will return before she awakes the next morning. 

Upon his return he found no trace of Belle within the walls of the Dark Castle. Her library empty, as are the gardens, kitchen, and the three chambers she frequents the most. Isla herself is still nestled in her own room, comfortably surrounded by the treasures her mother picked out. He calls for her, sharply and rudely the same way he did when she first arrived as the castle and still she failed to appear. 

The fear of Belle leaving as come true and just like Milah, she's abandoned her child. 

A month has barely passed since Belle left. Isla calls for her mother daily, crying at night for her mother to return and confused as to where she could be, leaving Rumplestiltskin flustered with how to properly explain the situation, even if it may be a lie. A toddler doesn't understand death and telling her the same lie he told Baelfire may only turn to a drastic repeat of history. 

"What accident?" His tongue is sharp when Regina comes to visit, requesting a deal to take care of a mermaid. Her eyes look like that of a vultures as she helps herself to tea and watches Isla intently. 

Regina's words are more cruel than sympathetic. A story purges from her dark lips of Belle walking around the gardens in the evening, only to be taken by men of her fathers. Seeing her affection for the Dark One as unholy, she was tortured to expel the impure thoughts and actions created between them. When he failed to come for her, days or weeks it is unclear, she chose to take her life than suffer from any more beatings. 

The Queen seemed to enjoy telling the story, as if it was a fairy-tale for Isla to enjoy before bed. Her stance is undaunted when he accuses her of lying to him, almost a laugh in her throat is building from her own amusement at watching the Dark One look so weak.

There is a sickness swirling in his stomach and he hisses at her to leave, to which she teases about needing a new girl to clean up the place.

"Mama?" Isla questioned, knowing the story was indeed about her mother. 

"Mama is gone, darling." He wrapped his arms around the toddler and brought her close. Isla reciprocated the action by wrapping her own arms around her Papa's neck as Rumplestiltskin sobbed out Belles name in mourning. 

* * *

Dove was sitting in the most uncomfortable chair Gold owned, stiff like Dove himself, reading a hearty book that looked worn down after long attempts to make his way through it. "Isla is already asleep, Mr. Gold," Dove said in his deep voice. "She drew some pictures for you today and asked me to see if you would look at them. Surprisingly quiet today and not in the mood to do much in the afternoon. We stayed home all day and she coloured."

Gold's mouth was dry. "Thank you, Dove," he said in his stiff voice. "Your services won't be needed again until the day after tomorrow."

Dove closed his heavy book and stood up from the chair, nodding in agreement, knowing better than to question what his employer had in mind for the following day.   
  
Gold's hand twitched impatiently when he heard the front door close and the heavy footsteps from Dove depart, aching to reach for Regina's throat and crush that pretty little windpipe she had. She gave him all he asked for; comfort, a good life, and riches but it wasn't what precisely what he wanted. She altered his intentions terribly and the witch tormented his daughter for her own pleasure.

He never thought a second chance would come his way after Baelfire and to have the last twenty-eight years with Isla raised by Dove instead made him want to retch. When the Saviour broke the curse, there would be no doubt that revenge would be atop his priority list.   
  
Slowly, he made his way to the kitchen, giving full attention to the refrigerator where three drawings by Isla were attached to the door by tape. No magnets graced his fridge, nor photos of Isla as an infant, which he noticed was common among the other parents of Storybrooke. All the photos of her were tucked away in a book somewhere in a closet of the large home. He was certain he had no photos of her that past her first birthday in this world.   
  
The first photo had two disproportioned figures. The first was a tall man in black, flyaway gray hair and a scowl crudely drawn on the figures face. Next to the man was a shorter female in a purple dress with long brunette hair and a smile. 'Papa n Me' written by Isla's learning hand. Her next art was of the same scowling man, a large sun, cloud, and rainbow happily placed behind the sullen drawing of Gold. To the side Isla had used a bright green Crayon to write 'To Papa, lov Isla,' forgetting the 'e' in the third word. Lastly, the final drawing on the fridge bared no lettering this time. The position was landscaped, showing another scowling Gold next to Isla in the purple dress. She had taken the time to draw and colour in bright blue clouds and flowers in the sky. Within the clouds was a smiling woman, a yellow dress worn by her and, what Gold could only assume, wings from the figures back.   
  
Belle.   
  
With no memory of her mother at all, Isla still had taken the time to draw Belle in Heaven, protectively watching down on her child. An angel was fitting for the real life Belle led, not the one she carried as Lacey. Perhaps Dove had spared Isla the disgusting truth of who Lacey was and painted her mother as a loving, nurturing soul that watched down on her daughter every day from Heaven.   
  
Gold took a seat in the closest chair he could possibly stumble back to, thankful one was close or he would have fallen flat on the floor. His hand was shaky and as he ran his fingers through his salt and pepper hair his nails scrapped along his scalp harder than he ever intended. This wasn't what he asked for. He wasn't the best father, never would he even admit that he was even an adequate one, but he was not this  _monster_ Regina painted him to be. He loved his children and now, because of the Queen, Isla would have strong memories of being unloved instead of the life she lived in their old word where she actually experienced it by both her mother and father.  

With all his might, Gold made attempts to be quiet when he entered Isla's room. There was no need to wake the child so late because of his crimes

The room was bursting with what any young girl in love with fairy-tales could ask for; pastel colours throughout the room, mountains of stuffed animals, books, crayons for her drawings, with the little light that was in the room he could see her closet bursting with different dresses and costumes for her to dress up in at any given moment for an adventure, and a bed that was all too mature for the tiny child sleeping under the shabby themed sheets. 

Isla snores were soft, like a hum, and her bottom lip puckered out to show her dream was far from pleasant. 

The horrors Isla saw in her sleep could be no different than the ones he could only assume Baelfire saw each night; a child unloved by their Papa.

For once he could be thankful that his figure was gaunt. Sitting on the edge of her bed gave little shift with his added weight and allowed his daughter to continue her sleep uninterrupted. Gold was just as careful to silence his sobbing the best he could as he brushed the long ringlets away from the child's face, allowing him to gather a proper look at his daughter; allowing him to remember how she came to be a part of his life even if her mother could not. 

He turned away from her, burying his face into his shaking hands to muffle his sobs. 

"Papa?" Isla's voice erupted over his sobbing; rich with haze. 

Gold turned  to look at his daughter. She was sitting up-right in her bed, a tiny fist rubbing up her face to help her brown eyes adjust to the light that was let in from the cracked door, her toddler curls sticking out in odd angles that confirmed her sleep had been rough. 

"Are you sad, Papa?" Her voice was almost surprised, never recollecting a moment her father ever came into her room during day or night.

Sad was an understatement but to his four-year-old, sad was the word used to describe the worst possible emotion in the world. The word she used to tell Dove how her own father made her feel every day. 

"Yes, sweetheart, Papa is sad," he hoarsely replied.

Isla blinked her eyes, confused by the sudden affectionate name her father gave her. "Did I miss a toy? Mr. Dove helped me with all my mess today and he said I did a good job picking up after myself."

There was a crushing pang around his heart that forced him to hold back more tears to avoid causing the child to feel any more guilt that no four-year-old should ever experience.   
  
"No," he breathed out with a quivering lip, "no, sweetheart. There was no mess in the house." Gold was unable to look at her directly but knew well enough that turning his back towards her would only confuse her even more. Sitting so his profile is all she sees gives them both a small level of comfort. The group of stuffed animals covered with tulle tutus and jeweled tiaras offer no aid in helping him control himself. How many of those had he tossed her way just to make her keep quiet? Did she even like tutus or frills? She picked out all of the toys herself but he didn't  _know_.

"Was it my pictures?" 

He swore his heart skipped a beat when she asked. "No. They were beautiful. Who was the woman in the sky?" He swallowed hard, knowing exactly what she was going to say.

 The child's face contorted, worried a punishment of any form was about to come. "Mama."

"Did Dove tell you about your mother today?" Of course he did. How else would she know what her mother looked like? There were no photos of Lacey in his home and during their affair none had ever been taken. 

Isla shook her head, "No, he never tells me about her when I ask. But I see her almost every night! When I dream we are both beautiful princess-ess-," she struggled with the word as she did this morning, "and we live in a big castle and she always tells me how much she loves me."

Gold didn't know if it was even possible to feel lower than he already did.

By fortune, Isla had been able to keep not only her name in this new land but impossible memories disguised as dreams. 

He envied the child. To have memories while cursed, however faint they may be, of Belle was something he wanted to share with her. 

Isla wrapped her arms around her father, hands meeting as his far shoulder, securing him in a loving embrace. He took to burying his crooked nose in the bend of the arm in front of him, attempting to control his breathing and push down the sobs that disrupted his daughter in the beginning. Her fingers from the hand that wrapped around his back went to his hair, playing with the long locks by raising the hair up and let it fall in strips from her fingers and twisting them around. The technique was soothing and something Belle did many nights back in the Dark Castle when he struggled with himself.   
  
"I'm sorry, Isla," he whined as he closed his eyes. "I'm sorry I haven't been a good Papa to you."  
  
Her fingers were still twirling around his hair, unphased by the overdue apology. "I'm sorry I haven't been a good daughter, Papa."  
  
Gold tightened his grip around her arm, suppressing the urge to let out a despairing moan. "My sweet child, you've been nothing but. You are a wonderful child. Smart, beautiful, kind...like your mother."

"Like Mama?" There's hope in her voice. "Will you tell me about her?"

His throat grows tense and he makes a quick decision to tell her about Belle, not Lacey. The life of her real mother,  not her cursed life that painted the woman so drastically different.

"Yes, Isla. In the morning I will tell you all about her."

* * *

She's alone in her cell. 

Day in and day out it's a wretched life of icy showers in the dark, cold food, and little light let into her tiny domain. Her voice is hardly used, only to scream when the nurse scrubs her skin too rough and to thank whoever it is that delivers her food. Her clothing offers no comfort and warmth through the nights and she only feels secure when she steps up on her mattress to peek out the tiny window and look at the very little she's allowed to see. 

Tonight there is warmth without the view of dark road of whatever town she may reside in. 

It's sudden. A beautiful tingle that builds from her toes and works its way up. She treasures the sensation, never to take it for granted, as it visits her nearly every night if she is fortunate enough and fears if she does not appreciate it, it will be lost forever.

Fleeting and the only thing in her life that is light in her dark cell. The only thing that keeps her alive. 

Maybe, she hopes, someone out there is thinking of her.

 


End file.
